


Lost and Found

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:49:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merrill gets lost, and finds more than she bargained for. (And by "more" I mean "more Carver masturbating"). Fill for k!meme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

Merrill got lost. Often. She knew this about herself, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how it seemed to happen, or why it happened so frequently. Usually, however, she just carried around her ball of twine, a lifeline to home (or at least the nearest district), and no matter how turned around she got, she could manage to stay out of sight, or at least out of danger.

But she’s never gotten so lost before that she ended up in the Creators-forsaken _Gallows._

One moment she and Isabela were strolling dockside, hunting down the pirate’s favorite jewelry stand—-“All the necklaces there look like penises, kitten,” she’d said. “They’d be _marvelous_ against your skin tone,”—-and the next she was being prodded onto a wooden barge, like a halla led to slaughter.

And now she was here, bare feet on cold, grey flagstones, the sound of metal greaves and boots and swords clanking all around her.

“Oh, Merrill,” she whispered. “You’ve really stepped in it this time.”

She stood gaping, open-mouthed, at the golden slave statues, their cowering, bent spines glinting in the sun. She knew she couldn’t just stand here until the next barge came—-if one came that day at all. (The barge schedule had become more erratic of late, or, at least, that’s what Carver had said when she’d asked him why he hadn’t come to see her in weeks.) She had to find somewhere safe.

Somewhere safe. In the Gallows.

“Mythal protect me,” she whispered, fighting back a shudder.

Eyes darting wildly around her, she crept forward. Was it safer, she wondered, to keep to the awning, and conceal herself in shadow? Or should she stroll brazenly across the courtyard, like Isabela would? Strolling, yes, strolling seemed the smarter option by far. Just pretend that she belonged here, that the _Templars_ were the ones who were lost. That’s what Isabela would do. But would they buy it from her? She wasn’t Isabela, no matter how much she wanted to be; she wasn’t good at staying hidden, only at getting lost. Maybe she should take off her pants. Maybe that would help--

“May I assist you, miss?"

Blue eyes blinked at her from behind a steel helmet.

“What? Me? No! Yes! That is--” she stuttered. “Um—-I’m a little lost.”

The Templar’s eyes narrowed in what might have been a smile, or a grimace. “Are you looking for someone?” she said, her voice echoing in the helmet.

Of course. Looking for someone. They’d believe that. Nobody would notice another elf on an errand. Even if she carried a staff taller than her head, or a belt of lyrium potions tied to her waist. But wait—who did she even know in the Gallows? Meredith? Alrik? Karras? Think, Merrill, _think_. “Carver?”

“Carver Hawke?” The Templar crossed her gauntlets over her chest. “New recruit barracks are up the left stairs.”

“Thank you,” Merrill squeaked. She ducked her head and scurried toward the staircase.

She passed under a metal grate and suddenly, Templars were everywhere, in uniform and out, half-dressed and fully-dressed and not dressed at all. They laughed, they whined, they shouted at each other and told off-color jokes, and there she was in the middle of it all, the blood mage apostate elf, the lamb who’d wandered into the dragon’s nest. She clutched her hands together to hide their trembling. _Pretend you’re not wearing pants,_ she admonished herself, in as close to Isabela’s voice as she could muster. _They can’t smell your fear, if you’re not wearing pants._

“Serrah, please,” she muttered to the first person she saw with no helmet. “I’m looking for Carver Hawke.”

The recruit squinted a moment, thinking. “Up that hallway, second door on the right,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Quiet though. He’s resting. Got midnight shift tonight.”

She nodded her silent thanks and walked—-ran—- _no, Merrill, you mustn’t run, you must walk, they’ll spot you if you run_ –-walked down the corridor to Carver’s door. Down here there were no Templars, thank the Creators. All was quiet. All was safe.

She could barely contain her relief as she knocked on the door. “Carver? Are you there?” she whispered. “It’s me, Merrill. Carver, please, I’m scared—“

The unlatched door swung silently open.

Carver was within. But—-well, she’d definitely never seen him rest quite like _this._

There he lay, stripped to the waist, strewn across his covers like a discarded sock, legs spread wide, skirts pulled away. Moaning. Flushed. It took her a moment to register exactly what he was doing, but when she saw it, she could see nothing else: His hand was wrapped around his cock, furiously pumping and squeezing, as his hips slowly, inexorably gyrated into his fist.

Suddenly she forgot why she’d knocked, why she was here, why anything was anything, because Carver was so enormous, so pink, glistening in the afternoon light. With his other hand, he coyly reached down into his thicket of black, wiry hair, and cupped what lay beneath. She sucked in a breath and held it. He was _beautiful._

Sweat trickled down his temple. She could not look away. He groaned once, twice, wordless but needful, his tongue lingering on his lips, swallowing, swallowing. She could not look away. He tossed his head back, eyes squeezed shut. Faster the hand moved. Faster, faster. Still she could not look away.

He whispered something that might have been a ragged _Maker_ or maybe her name.

She still could not look away.

Down the hall, a passing Templar laughed loudly. Carver’s eyes blinked open, and fell on hers.

“Merrill?” he squawked. “What are you—-oh _shit_ —“

He came messily, spurting over his fist, entire body shuddering. She stared, fascinated by the sight, the way his biceps contracted, how the come pulsed out along his belly and hand. “Shit. _Fuck._ Maker—-oh, _balls_ , oh, Merrill, I’m sorry, Merrill, fuck, this isn’t what it looks like--“

“It looks like you were masturbating,” she said evenly.

If possible, his face was even redder now than before. “I guess it was exactly what it looked like, then. _Shit._ I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said breathlessly.

They were silent a moment, Carver’s face burning, hers clammy and warm. She felt her mouth drop open slightly, eyes still on his quickly diminishing cock, transfixed by the way the fluid trickled down on his knuckles, creamy and white and possibly delicious. Merrill couldn’t help but lick her lips.

“Um,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “I should—-you know.”

“Oh-—oh! Yes.” She tried to gesture casually, but ended up flailing her hands instead. “Go ahead.”

“Er.” He gnawed his lower lip, hand still closed around his limp cock. “Would you mind—-that is, generally it’s polite to, um, turn around.”

“Oh.” She folded her arms across her chest and wheeled on her heel. “Sorry.”

She heard sounds of him grabbing something soft and roughly cleaning himself off, then rearranging his skirts, pulling on a shirt.

“It’s safe,” he said softly, clearing his throat. When she turned back around, he was sitting on the bed, head was in his hands.

“You know, Carver—“

“Don’t, Merrill,” he whispered. “Please.”

“But it’s okay, Dalish do it too—“

“Merrill.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about—“

 _“Merrill.”_

She sighed and closed the door. He lifted his head from his hands. His eyes were bright, shining. “What are you doing?” he squeaked.

“Making you feel better,” she said.

She slipped a hand into her leggings.

“No-— _No_ , oh Maker, no, Merrill, please.” He leapt from his bunk and lurched toward her, arms outstretched. He almost put his hands on her shoulders, but drew them back at the last second, as if he were afraid they might burn. “Please, let’s just forget this ever happened.”

 _But I don’t want to_ , Merrill thought, fighting back a frown. _I want to remember it forever._

“As you wish,” she said, removing her hand.

He stared at her a long moment, breath heavy and close against her lips. “What are you even doing here?” he muttered.

“I—“ She bowed her head. “I got lost.”

“Maker, Merrill,” he chuckled. “Your timing is incredible.”

“I know,” she said, relishing the way he flushed to the tips of his ears. _No pants, Merrill. No pants._ “Carver, I—“

“Hawke,” came a voice at the door, and a firm knock. “There was a girl come looking for—“

As the door swung open, Carver and Merrill whirled about in unison. It was the Templar that had shown Merrill the way to the barracks. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Thank you for your help, serrah,” she said. She smiled then, boldly, wickedly at Carver, and slipped a hand onto his. It was still red, wet, slightly sticky from his exertion. “But I think I’ve found everything I wanted right here.”


End file.
